Ever.
Plunge
Violet Paige
1
Blaine
What the fuck? Coach and I stared at the sign on the set of glass double doors leading to the pool.
I looked at Jim. The man had coached me since I was fourteen. He knew I was fucking pissed without me uttering a word, but I did it anyway.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I heard him exhale.
I threw a towel over my shoulder, slapping my back with the edges. “I can’t believe these incompetent bastards.”
“Wait here. I’ll find out what this is about,” he announced
“Like hell I’m going to stand here. I need to get in the water. Someone needs to answer for this.”
“They will, Blaine. They will. But I don’t want you to throw a punch before heat races. That’s the last thing we need. Give me ten minutes.”
“All right. But if I’m not in the water in ten, someone’s losing their job. I’ll take this to the head of the Olympic Committee.”
He shook his head. “I’ll get you in.”
Jim knew as much about the aquatics training facility as I did, but he took off as if he knew which direction to go for answers.
I tucked a pair of earbuds in my ears and turned up the music. I couldn’t let this fuck up get in my head. The music had a way of drowning out the background noise and problems. It worked before a meet. I needed it to work now.
The games opened a week from today. There was no excuse for this. None.
I scowled at the sign that read:
Pool Closed
It had just become the biggest cock blocker in my life. Shit.
I’d break the lock on the damn door if I had to. They couldn’t keep me out of the water. I had to train. I needed to fucking swim.
I took one day off to travel, but that was it. There was no room to slow down. No time for rest. No day to take it easy. The gold was mine, but only if I got in the damn pool.
Jim was probably the one coach who understood my intensity. He knew I couldn’t slack off on my training. It wasn’t in my DNA. I heard other guys in locker rooms talk about rest days or vacations they planned. They complained that they needed a mental break from the game. That the pressure was about to make them crack.
That was a bunch of bullshit.
I didn’t buy into it and neither did Jim. That was why we worked so well together. If I wasn’t in the pool, I was in the gym with weights in my hands.
He was probably the only one willing to put up with my shit. Hell, I knew he was. But he was also the only one who had his hands on a champion.
You didn’t get this kind of body by sitting on your ass. I worked every fucking day. There were endless hours of laps. Mile after mile of runs. Strength and stretching sessions. You name it—I did it, if it made me a better swimmer. A faster man. A competitor. I wasn’t born Australia’s greatest swimmer—I earned that title.
I cranked up the volume on my music. The smell of fresh paint was stronger than the smell of chlorine. Something wasn’t right about this place. I tried to look past the frosted rings on the door and see if anyone was working inside. The water was still.
Jim tapped me on the shoulder. I swung around, yanking the music from my ears.